


Restart

by dormiensa



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Humor, Post-Reichenbach, Profanity, Season/Series 02 Spoilers, possible canon divergence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-17
Updated: 2013-12-17
Packaged: 2018-01-04 23:32:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1086973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dormiensa/pseuds/dormiensa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock returns and, as always, causes a disturbance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Restart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MiHnn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiHnn/gifts).



> Written for MiHnn as an exchange fic for her fabulous Christmas Gift Giveaway 2013. Written prior to the release of the trailers for Season Three.

Molly walked groggily toward the kitchen. Tea. An extra-strong one. Else, she wouldn’t be able to function. Not on a mere three hours. Thinking about the reason for her lack of sleep, Molly grinned. It really had been the perfect date and the perfect celebration of a milestone last night.

_One year._ Fingers fumbling to plug in the kettle and retrieve her mug, Molly continued to grin as she browsed through her collection to select a teabag—Earl Grey; yes, she’d need _that_ one to survive the morning. Having prepared the things needed for her revival brew, she began filling Chiron’s food and water bowls and heard his _meow_ of approval at her actions. 

As Molly made her way around the island-breakfast bar toward the preferred corner with Chiron’s meal, she looked around for her cat. And yelped. Bits of Chiron’s repast landed on the floor.

“Good morning, Molly.” Sitting straight-backed on her couch, petting Chiron and staring just as intently at her as her cat was Sherlock Holmes. Amusement in the pale eyes and an upward twitch at the corners of his lips. Chiron was less amused. His tail swished angrily as he regarded the mess she’d made of his meal.

“Noticed the new shades on the windows. I hope you had this new one fully vetted,” Sherlock teased. “It wouldn’t do to have another—”

“Mols, are you all right? Did you hur—” Lestrade stumbled out of the bedroom, his shirt untucked and only partially buttoned up. His unbuckled belt peeked through his shirttails. He stopped short at the scene before him and gaped.

There was an awkward silence.

“Idiot!” admonished the deep baritone as the all-too-familiar face scrunched up in self-reproach. “Of course. The Chance UK pens. There’s always something!” Sherlock placed Chiron on the floor before finally standing and walking toward them. “I see congratulations are in order. Mycroft must have deliberately omitted this piece of news during our last conversation. I must commend you, Lestrade: a definite improvement of higher cognitive functions. Molly is a far superior choice—and fencing! Such unsuspected depths! MI-6 has a surprisingly decent piste in the basement of the National Portrait Gallery. We should go sometime and you can show your paces.”

Lestrade finally recovered his voice. “Fencing isn’t only for toffs, you know. And how the hell did you get in?”

Sherlock removed a key from his pocket and held it up briefly before laying it on the kitchen island. “Molly said I could keep this, should I ever need a place to hide. But now that I’ve returned to the realm of the living, I thought I’d come by to tell her she need no longer keep this secret from my friends. How unexpectedly convenient that you’re here—saves me the trip to your office. Though I _had_ rather looked forward to seeing the incredulity on Donovan’s and Anderson’s faces. I may still do that.

“Now, I’ll leave you two to discuss how Molly helped me convince the world of my death. And Molly,” Sherlock grasped her shoulders and pecked her cheek, “thank you.” With a last flash of a smile to both, he strode out of the flat.

Knowing that there were probably a million questions running through Greg’s head, Molly took a deep breath and turned toward him, Chiron’s food dishes still in her hands. 

A feeling of dread shot down her spine at Greg’s expression.

“Y-you knew he wasn’t—you helped—” Greg shook his head to clear his thoughts. “I—I’m going to be late for work. I’ll—I’ll pick up coffee on the way.” He disappeared into the bedroom to grab his ID badge, wallet, and Glock and almost ran out of the apartment.

***

Molly returned to the lab from lunch and had to bite back a small shriek when she saw the sharp profile and the familiar peering-into-the-microscope posture.

Sherlock looked up and headed toward her, beaming. “Ah, Molly. I thought we should start with—”

“No, Sherlock!” Molly practically screamed. “No bodies, no body parts, no DNA tests, no isolation of any compounds!” She took a deep breath. “Please, just leave. I can’t deal with you today!”

Sherlock furrowed his brow. “Molly… I apologize for causing you distress—”

Molly laughed—a grating, high-pitched laugh that didn’t sound at all like her—and then burst into tears. “You don’t even know what you’re apologizing for! You just think that you can—He looked so hurt! He thinks I don’t trust him, that I must be keeping other secrets from him—He didn’t even kiss me good-bye!” 

Molly berated herself for even saying so much—she didn’t intend to, but the pressure of keeping this secret for three years had finally beset and breached her last vestiges of fortitude. She and Greg had been badly hurt by previous relationships, and they had promised each other to be as open and honest as possible. And yet, all this time, she’d been lying to him, pretending that Sherlock was dead. She angrily wiped away streaming tears and scolded herself to stop crying. 

She felt the press of a crisp, cotton shirt against her forehead and arms hesitantly embrace her.

“I’m sorry, Molly.” The slight catch in that voice, a voice that had never held an ounce of warmth despite its lush tones, stuttered her crying to a halt. She looked up, still angry, still reproachful, but the pain and hurt that she saw in his eyes made her blink.

“I see I’ve made things worse, despite having successfully dismantled Moriarty’s network and ensuring not one of them can ever hurt my friends again.” 

Who on earth _was_ this man? And what had he done with the real Sherlock Holmes? But no, the face, the mannerisms, the naive confusion, _that look of sadness when he thinks no one is watching_ … This was the real Sherlock Holmes. Well, a slightly damaged Sherlock Holmes but certainly a much more humanized one. 

“Have you seen John and Mrs. Hudson yet?” 

*** 

Lestrade walked wearily into his dark office. The motion activated the sensor for the lights. The city-view disappeared as the bright halogens blocked it out. He slumped into his chair and pinched the bridge of his nose in a feeble attempt to relieve his headache.

His eyes startled open when his brain suddenly registered the smell of coffee. There, on his desk, was a disposable cup, from his favourite café around the corner, containing his favourite blend. In front of it, spread open and stacked one atop another, were three case files. Peering at the top one, he was stunned to realize it was the unsolved murder from Montague Place last month. And in the margins of his final report were scribbled notes in a familiar hand… 

“You know, Lestrade,”—the familiar voice intoning from the side of his desk furthest from the door extorted an expletive from the Detective Inspector—“three unsolved gruesome murders in a month is very dismal, even for you. And here I was thinking I’d underestimated your intelligence.” Sherlock got off the floor and sat opposite Lestrade. He was wearing a pair of sunglasses.

“What’s with the stupid shades? And how the hell do you know I fence?” In the midst of his incredulity at Sherlock’s return and his anger at what Sherlock’s faked death had done to John, the latter question had been bothering Lestrade all day. He knew the topic had never come up in past conversations. And he kept his fencing equipment in the bedroom and his second-prize regional Junior Championship trophy in the study. 

“Noticed your stance whenever you shoot, though I didn’t connect it with _this_ particular sport. And your fingermarks were all over the magazine interview with the Turkish champion. _Obviously_.” Sherlock removed the sunglasses and stared at him, his face carefully inscrutable. 

Lestrade guffawed, his sour mood finally lifting as he took in the small bandage taped across the bridge of the haughty nose and the puffy eyes that were already starting to blacken. “I take it John didn’t take the news of your faked suicide very well.” 

Sherlock grimaced.

A sudden thought made Lestrade grin. “Don’t tell me Mrs. Hudson did this?”

“Of course not. Though she did give an earful after her legs stopped wobbling.” Sherlock made a face. He opened his mouth to speak, hesitated, then sighed. “I’m sorry to have caused a rift between you and Molly. That was not my intention when I dropped by the flat this morning.”

Lestrade stared. 

Then, he sighed as well, rubbing the side of his face. “Not your fault. You didn’t know about—Care to tell me the whole story so I know what I need to apologize to my wife for?”

Sherlock spent the next forty-five minutes catching him up on over three years of meticulous planning and execution.

***

It was eleven o’clock by the time Lestrade returned home.

Molly was sitting, arms around her legs, on the couch. She looked up with reddened eyes.

“Oh, Mols, I’m such a bastard!” Within seconds, Lestrade had dropped everything by the door and bundled Molly into his lap. He peppered her with kisses and squeezed in as many “I’m sorry”s as he could. Molly finally grabbed him and kissed his mouth in a fierce acceptance of his contrition.

When they paused for breath, Molly said, in a small voice, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I should have—”

“No, Mols. You did right to keep it secret. Wasn’t yours to tell. I’m sorry I worried you by coming home so late. I had an after-hours visitor who kept me.” He gave her a lopsided grin. “Don’t know how John could stand living with that tosser. My ears are still ringing from his non-stop talking. My head hurts from all that information. And I don’t think I’m done being mad at him.” He sighed. “Thank you for helping him save my life.”

Molly smiled and kissed him softly. “Did he say if he’s seen John and Mrs. Hudson yet?”

“Yeah. Mrs. Hudson scolded and John punched him.”

“No!” Molly giggled.

“Broke his nose. Two black eyes. But John’ll get over it.” Lestrade huffed. “He’s like the fucking prodigal son: he comes home, guilts us with that story about snipers, and we’re all lining up to tell him we forgive him. I told him that he shouldn’t even _think_ about showing up at my crime scenes until after he’s cleared up the mess he left behind. And even then, he’d better have the proper paperwork approved by the Chief Superintendent so he can get past the yellow tape.”

“You know that he’ll just get his brother to fix that for him.”

“Yeah, but I also know he hates owing favours to Mycroft.”

Molly grinned and kissed his nose. “Don’t be too mad at him. It was the only way he knew to show how much he cares.”

“Christ. I know. But when I think about what John—do you know, the first time he agreed to come out for drinks was the second anniversary of Sherlock’s… well, I suppose it’s ‘disappearance’ now. He got completely pissed that night, and you know what he told me? He said he’d gone to the grave and asked the tombstone for one more miracle, for Sherlock to not be dead.”

Molly sighed and tears welled up. “I always felt so guilty whenever I saw him—it’s why I avoided him that first year. I just _couldn’t_ … and then he asked me out for coffee one day, out of the blue. And he apologized— _to me_ —for staying away and not being there. I was so cross with Sherlock that I told him about it, even though I knew it’d hurt him.” Molly paused then bravely looked her husband straight in the eye. “I don’t blame you for being mad at me, but please, please say that you’ll forgive me. Someday.”

“Oh, Mols!” Lestrade kissed her deeply. “I’m sorry I blamed you at all and for making you think I did. After Sherlock told me the truth, I knew that you were only helping him protect _us_. Will you ever forgive _me_ for hurting you?”

“Oh, Greg!” Molly hugged him tightly for a long time. 

“We should check on John. He’s got to be feeling horrible,” Lestrade mumbled into her shoulder.

“Yes. I should see if he’ll meet for coffee sometime and apologize. Can’t trust Sherlock to tell him without making a mess of it.”

“Yeah. And if his anger gets the better of his chivalry, remind him that you’re married to a DI.”

Molly giggled. “Or I could tell him I have access to all sorts of very sharp blades. And I know where to cut to make it hurt most.”

“Ha, that’s right!” Lestrade tightened his arms so Molly was flush against him. They exchanged short but forceful kisses until she was breathless.

A sudden growling broke the mood.

“There’s some pasta salad in the fridge.”

“Have you eaten yet, love?”

“No, I was waiting to see what you wanted for dinner. I can still cook up something quick now.”

“Nah, we’ll just grab whatever leftovers there are.” There was a wicked glint in his eyes. “I’d much rather have a large helping of dessert.”


End file.
